Yesterday over a champagne brunch here at the apartment, Peg suggested we take a drive through the hills north of here to "Skinny Atlas." I tried to figure out how long it would take by plugging this term into Google maps, and struck out. After a few alternate spellings, my computer figured out I was looking for the town whose name is the title to this post. Apparently, you really do pronounce it "Skinny Atlas"--most of the letters are silent.
We meandered through hills resplendent in fall color for a couple hours getting there, traversing Ithaca and Marcellus and half a dozen little farm towns that looked like the opening credits of the Newhart Show (assuming the reader is old enough to remember that one, which featured three brothers all named Darrell).
Skaneateles was founded 190 years ago, and in its day was the site of an anarchist, atheist, socialist commune (you can't make this stuff up) that burned out after three years. It was also a hotbed of abolitionist activity before the war, and was part of the Underground Railroad. Joe Biden's first wife was born here.
Now it is sort of like Corning on steroids--blocks and blocks of beautiful 19th century homes in a forest of yellow and orange hardwoods, with rolling hills leading down to a cobalt blue lake on the southern edge of town. The expensive chain stores have found their way here (right over my shoulder in that photo was a Talbot's), and you can wear the numbers off your AmEx card buying authentic, rustic country stuff at a price that will roll your socks down.
Peg and I contemplated buying a $26 stocking cap for my poor bald head, then opted instead to stop into a restaurant near to her heart for wine and tapas. Over two years ago, she called me on her cell at that very same table only to have her phone die mid-conversation. Now we have our conversations in person. As we sat down, the waitress was showing a gentleman and two little kids out through what she told the children was a "secret door," really just a service door next to the kitchen. We later figured out those were her kids, coming to see Mom at work and munch a little pizza while Dad downed an IPA.
Being a masochist, I insisted we get back on the road for the long drive back to Corning so I would have time to get situated and watch the Dawgs lose. We took a 12 mile detour to see Syracuse, an unlovely town with an unlovely college sprawling along the south side of town, on a hill above what felt like some pretty dangerous neighborhoods. Then we turned the rental car back to the south. Peg napped along the way, I called my own mother as I have pretty much every weekend for the last three decades, and the late afternoon sun made the hills explode in orange and yellow and browns. Farmers left pumpkins for sale on the side of the road, with only an honor box perched among them for payment. Try that anywhere in the south.
All in all, an idyllic Saturday in an idyllic place. And we still have a whole 'nuther day to explore before going back to work.
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